


dearest, darling

by mizael



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! ARC-V
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Blood, Body Horror, Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Gore, M/M, Witches, witch's house au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25680475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizael/pseuds/mizael
Summary: There is a rumor about that witch's house. No one who goes there ever comes back.At the very least, for now, Yuuya will keep returning to this lonely witch’s house in the forest, guided by his curiosity and compassion, and Yuuri will be here to receive him.(To love him, maybe.)
Relationships: Sakaki Yuya/Yuri
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	dearest, darling

**Author's Note:**

> (injects yuuriyuuya into my veins like a shot of ecstasy)  
> whY DID THIS TURN OUT TO BE LIKE 13K WORDS AAAAAAA
> 
> please enjoy my not-really witch's house au... i worked really hard on this  
> big thanks to [ducks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckiesandlemons/profile) for doing competitive writing sprints with me for like half of this goddamn fic. [i didnt even win our sprints.](https://i.gyazo.com/32ca149d8743ce8644c3a072e14ddcb4.png) what was the point!!!
> 
> also! i picked out some music to go with it, so please listen along maybe...
> 
> prologue & i - [falling in love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VwpZjzfiPR4)  
> ii - [painted](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V4mvRlFIS0Y)  
> iii - [i could see you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FkF9VBOyk8o)  
> iv - [nocturne no. 2 in e flat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x_dBsX_gJQk)  
> v & vi - [silver line](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8sHrfylRmSY)  
> vii & viii - [the days that'll never come](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fZzwpSB0QgI)  
> ix - [nocturne no. 3 in a minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KbT0TrFYbOw)  
> x - [nocturne no. 1 in c, summer nocturne](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iD4b7zkido8)  
> ??? - [i could see you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FkF9VBOyk8o)

For the past year, Yuuri has been in love with one person. His name is Sakaki Yuuya, and his smiles are as radiant as the sun. In his little house in the forest, away from the rest of the town, Yuuya treks in the morning mist to see him every day. Yuuri waits at the window like a forlorn widow, and the sight of Yuuya’s red hair breaks like the sun across the horizon, splaying warm rays onto his skin and the garden outside.

Yuuri finds himself sleeping thinking of the next day, of waiting for Yuuya by the window. He finds himself wishing and wanting for the first time in his life, beyond the bounds of his abode.

It is Yuuya—always Yuuya.

**i.**

In the old forest, a witch lives in a beautiful house surrounded by a lush garden and colorful, blooming flowers. The tales vary wildly as to how the witch acquired such a house, if you ask all the villagers in the town over, from flaying the previous master alive to the witch simply using his magicks to conjure it into existence. Deeper still are the stories told by the old crones, of how the house was built on human sacrifice and haunted by the spirits who died for its creation.

Yuuri only goes into town once a month, to trade pseudo love potions and flimsy protection charms for hides of rare animals, or the occasional sweets craving. Sometimes he finds in a traveling merchant a painting that catches his attention, or a sculpture to add to his collection.

The townspeople want at once to have nothing to do with him, yet also take advantage of his magicks when they can. He takes a maiden’s hand and presses pink bottles into her palm, promising sweet love if only she would pay the price in return. Some days, it is coin, and Yuuri walks around the marketplace with a full pouch to taunt the other merchants. Other days, it is something more—her eyes, her voice, her blood. All manner of a human’s essence, in exchange for love. It is not a price too high to pay, human as they are.

He meets Yuuya, like this. In his stall at the market square, covered by a deep purple cloth, the table littered with little pink and white bottles, shining like a jewelry box. Amidst the sea of people, it is Yuuya who Yuuri sees first.

Their eyes, they must know where to meet even between the passing crowds. Red and pink, like the sky at dusk.

“What do you need my blood for?” Yuuya asks, a little bit courageously, as he points at the sign Yuuri has set next to his wagon.

_One potion — a vial of blood._

Yuuri thinks of staying silent, as he always has, with the sliver of a smile hidden behind the gleam of his eyes. How impertinent, the townspeople would say. How rude and quick to drive his customers away. Yet, they would come back, later, tittering like a fish at the surface of the water, waiting for a stray bread crumb to break through. Yuuya would be the same, too, as Yuuri watches his eyes scour the potions lined up in front of them. He could say nothing.

Yet, he opens his mouth: “To summon demons,” he lies, tilting his head to the side. “Why else?”

“Oh, is that what you do with it...?” Yuuya mumbles under his breath, but Yuuri hears it clear as day.

“It’s lonely in that big house,” he says again, unable to stop the words from his mouth. This time, it is not a lie. “Who else would keep me company, if not for demons?”

Yuuya looks startled, then, a flash of recognition in his eyes that is gone just as quickly as it came. Yuuri knows his type—a kind heart, a loving one, though fragile and quick to break. It is a story he is familiar with, as he lives it. A lonely witch in a big house, built on superstition and lies, and maybe a hint of magic just to make it all fantastical, unreal. It is a story that would tug on Yuuya’s heartstrings, gentle as they are, with the resonance and hum of a violin. It would tug on his own heartstrings, too, if Yuuri had one.

(Yet, for a moment, a small moment, Yuuri glimpses something beyond the tattered boy covered in dirt in front of him, asking about a potion that Yuuri knows will do nothing. For a moment, it is only the two of them in the marketplace—the other stalls abandoned, the town quiet. For a moment, he hears his heart beat (and what a strange sound it is), and then stop again, like it is sputtering into life.)

“It’s you who lives in that house?” Yuuya asks, after a while.

Yuuri smiles, full of teeth. “I am the witch, yes.”

It is a few moments longer, Yuuya’s eyes reflecting the light of the sun, a little bold, perhaps, before he turns on his heel and runs off into the crowds. Yuuri watches him disappear between the people, the red of his hair stark against the muddied colors of the town, made of wood and stone and ordinary means.

For a moment more, as he watches the crowd pass, he thinks of Yuuya’s eyes, brilliant red like cut rubies in the twilight. He had wanted to reach out and pluck them, like flowers, at the stem. He had wanted to keep them, eyes full of fire, and longing, and love, even for someone Yuuya has only met briefly, for no more than a couple minutes. The house, too, might have liked them.

But this is the natural order of things—the red of Yuuya’s hair wavering before it vanishes among the townspeople, and Yuuri with his magical, makeshift stall covered in shining, mysterious magic, waiting.

If Yuuya were to offer his eyes next time, Yuuri thinks, he would not refuse.

**ii.**

It begins with a basket of flowers and a vial of blood.

On a tranquil morning, when the morning fog had already dispersed, and the birds had flown off in search of food instead of chirping incessantly near his window, Yuuya had appeared, vibrant and red. When he knocks once, Yuuri does not deign to answer him, and neither does he go the second or third time. It is only after a long hour, when the sun peaks at noon, that the house finally shudders and opens the door without another word.

Yuuri has half a mind to scold it, trying to lure in prey when he has other business to deal with, but the sight of Yuuya steadfast in the doorway greets him with pleasant surprise. He has a wicker basket in one hand, filled with flowers, and in the other, a clear vial of blood, as red as his eyes.

“I don’t sell anything here,” Yuuri says, light, in return, as he approaches the entryway. The house behind almost sucks in a breath, in surprise. “I only make potions for when I go into town.”

“That’s alright,” says Yuuya, smiling still. He hands Yuuri the vial like it is but one of the flowers in his basket. “This is for you.”

Yuuri’s eyebrows shoot up. “An offering, or a bribe? What is it that you want?”

There is something in the quirk of Yuuya’s lips that Yuuri—that he cannot help but watch, with the slit of his eyes. It is gentle, kind, like Yuuri remembers his heart being. “You said it was lonely here, didn’t you?”

The retorts stop in his throat and disperse like the morning fog on his tongue. Yuuri watches Yuuya’s smile, baffled, for a moment, before he turns his lips cruelly and scoffs.

“You would come all the way out here to keep a witch company?” Yuuri almost wants to sneer, too, in disbelief, but chases away the feeling with a touch of his fingers to his jaw, digging his nails into the bone there.

“Of course,” there is no hesitation from Yuuya in the slightest. He slides the basket off his arm and holds it out by the handle, as he presents it to Yuuri. Daisies and myrtles bundled between autumn maple leaves. Red, like his hair. White, like the fabric of his dirtied clothes. “I picked these on the way for you as well, but I guess the rumors about your garden were true.”

Yuuri’s hand, it twitches, so he reaches forward—but not to take it.

“I could kill you,” he says, as he wraps his fingers tight around Yuuya’s on the handle. They are warm. “I could eat you. Boil you alive. Pick you for ingredients.”

“Would you?” Yuuya asks. His eyes are smoldering, like the fires Yuuri saw in town.

It makes something claw within him, a beast that hungers for this warmth, like a starved predator descending upon its first prey with its scales in the dusk. Yuuri wants to pull him into the house now, wants to make Yuuya run its passageways, wants to watch the house constrict around him until he cannot leave and the life leaves his lungs. He thinks about Yuuya’s eyes again, as he stares into them, of the fires and the sun.

(His heart, it beats twice.)

“No one would know,” says Yuuri, nails pressing into Yuuya’s hands. Hard enough to draw blood, if only he willed it.

If only he willed it.

Yuuya does not lose his smile, despite the pressure Yuuri puts on his hands. “But you didn’t say yes,” he says. Then: “I know what it’s like, you know, to be lonely, by yourself.”

Yuuri lets him go.

“You shouldn’t come back,” his fingers are quick to find the door, even though he knows it can shut itself. Yuuya is still holding out his basket, even through the bruises that appear on his wrists from Yuuri’s grip.

The silence passes in seconds, but to Yuuri it seems like minutes. The clock on the far wall goes tick-tock, and his fingers dig into the wood of the door, until the house whimpers his name. Still, he does not let it go.

“I’ll be back,” says Yuuya anyway, like he is unafraid of what magicks haunt Yuuri’s house, or the monsters that live inside. Yuuri could be—is one of them. “Tomorrow, at noon.”

Yuuri clicks his tongue. “I won’t let you leave, next time.”

The basket of flowers in Yuuya’s hands is placed on his doorstep. He smiles, still. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

As Yuuri watches his back fade into the copse, like he did at the markets when Yuuya faded into the crowds, he finds himself wondering if he really would be so foolish as to come again.

(Part of him, it begins to want.)

“Mraow,” something says behind him.

“You again?” he turns from the door and moves his gaze to the little black cat perched on an end table beside him, seated and tall. It only blinks its green eyes at him. “I let him go, you know. Like I did for you.”

It waves its tail, as if annoyed.

He closes the door.

**iii.**

They fall into a routine that Yuuri cannot acknowledge—he cannot begin to say what it is about Yuuya, or his visits, or his eyes, that cause Yuuri to go back on his words. He cannot begin to fathom the depths of Yuuya’s devotion and dedication for someone like him, a witch in the woods, secluded in his house. Yuuri would take Yuuya’s spirit, his soul, his very body, should he wish to. Should he wish to.

Yuuri finds himself repeating this: should he want to, should he wish to, should he will to. Yuuya comes once, and then twice, and then three times. He does not stop coming, despite the words Yuuri tells him, the warnings he gives, of how he could take Yuuya’s body and remove its limbs, sew together a new body to walk, if only for his own amusement.

Yet, nothing deters him, not even death or mutilation, and Yuuri is helpless, for once—he coasts along, caught in Yuuya’s wave, and lets himself be pushed along with the tides. If the house were to laugh at this, it does not. Yuuri knows, as well as the house itself, that they are both caught in the light of Yuuya’s eyes, the line of his smile, the way he speaks. It is soft, some days, and bright, others, when his eyes glisten as he speaks to Yuuri, like they are the only two people in the world.

The town, it is insignificant in comparison.

Yuuya walks into his home and the doors he should not enter are locked, the passageways closed, when Yuuya asks about the deeper parts of Yuuri’s abode.

“Where is the room you summon demons, then?” Yuuya is sitting in the parlor, again, as steam rises from his tea cup. It is the only room the house will let him be in—the only room Yuuri wants him to see. “Surely you can show me that?”

Such unsavory things like the hands of his statue collection, or the paintings given false life, are not for Yuuya to know.

“Can you handle it?” he hides a smile behind the porcelain of his own tea cup, when he brings it to his lips. “You wouldn’t like it very much.”

“I think I can guess, a little bit,” Yuuya says, eyeing another door on the far side of the room, opposite the entrance and the windows that spill light onto his face. Locked, like all the others. “Of what’s inside, I mean. Or what you do, as a witch.”

Yuuri takes a sip of his tea. “The rumors in town?”

“I don’t want to tell you what they say,” Yuuya’s eyes flicker back to Yuuri, and they are like embers, again. When they spark like this, Yuuri cannot look away—it is the sight of Yuuya’s dear devotion, his kindness, caught in the sparks. “It’s mostly… my brothers, when I tell them I’m coming here. They keep wanting to follow me.”

“But you keep coming back.”

The laugh Yuuya gives is light, and tinkling, against the sun of the open windows. “And you keep letting me go, despite saying you won’t let me leave,” he says.

“One of these days, I won’t,” replies Yuuri, simply. His eyes watch the ripple of the tea in his hands. “Would you still come back, if you knew?”

“Of course I would,” the response is quick. “I keep coming all this time despite this, you know?”

“I know,” says Yuuri, soft. He places the tea cup down, back onto its dish. “I can’t show you, anyway.”

“But—”

It is better, for Yuuya’s own sake, for him not to know, no matter how much he rails and complains. There is no lie in this: if Yuuya ever saw beyond the parlors of his house, he would not leave again—and this is something Yuuri cannot change.

At the very least, for now, Yuuya will keep returning to this lonely witch’s house in the forest, guided by his curiosity and compassion, and Yuuri will be here to receive him.

(To love him, maybe.)

Once again, it is Yuuya who walks towards the sunset.

**iv.**

Yuuri remembers being young.

His mother was a beautiful woman, with hair colored deep purple like the first strike of midnight, and eyes that reflected the moon even through a cover of clouds. Magic flowed from her hands like water, fluid and graceful, with purpose, and she could call thunderstorms with just a command of words. When she laughed, the church bells would sound deeply, almost sorrowfully, like it was regretful that it could not match the pitch of her voice.

On the occasions she took him into town, the men would sigh and putter around her, eager to earn her praise and attention, or even a stray glance between the crowds of the market, like they were characters of a fairy tale. They must have seen something in the depths of her eyes, been enchanted by the stars in her hair—when she fluttered her eyelashes and wet her pupils, they followed like little toy soldiers back to their house in the forest, yearning for their name to fall from her rosy lips, and walked, unknowingly, towards their doom.

Yet, her beauty was the only thing she possessed that was worth anything in Yuuri’s eyes.

Even as a child, he possessed an innate magical talent and aptitude that far surpassed his mother’s. Spells would come to his lips more potent, the creatures in the house would bow their heads, and even mundane things like sewing, which his mother took pride in, with her smooth, pretty fingers—Yuuri would be better at, at the end of the day. The house, older than them both, would respond more promptly to his commands or wishes, like an excited dog eager to receive praise from its favored master. Things fell subserviently around him, clicking into place. In this way, he was lucky. In others, he was not.

His mother was as beautiful as she was jealous; she came to resent the talent he was born with. It was not that she was lacking—Yuuri had only been a child, and she had lived for centuries before him, with all the knowledge that it entailed—it was only that he was _better_ , and she could never learn to accept that.

His mother and her’s before her, spanning countless generations, had all been witches that resided in this house. When they died, their spirits joined the chorus, though his mother was not so eager to add her voice to it.

It was their fate, _her_ fate, to be usurped by the next child, like she did with her mother, and as her mother did before her.

So it was that his mother hid all manner of knowledge from him: books mysteriously lost, doors to the library locked, and entrance into the ritual chambers forbidden. The house, though it loved him, could not disobey the intents of its master, so Yuuri learned to get by on his own. Even with all her beauty and magicks, his mother possessed human flaws, and when she forgot to bring a book back into a forbidden room, he would snatch it and read it, draining all the knowledge he possibly could before putting it back where he found it.

What his mother did not understand was how much further along Yuuri truly was than her. Though he absorbed the words written on the pages he could read, he created many more through the missing segments of information from his studies. If he could not obtain the knowledge his mother so carefully kept from him, then he would simply create it himself.

There was one spell his mother could never master, despite her many gifts. It was the reason why she led men to their deaths inside their house, why she even graced the town with her presence at all.

If there were no bodies, she could not weave. If she could not weave, then she could not channel her magicks into the lifeless dolls she made of their parts. A spell of immortality, she’d called it, romantically, with a sigh that should have been reserved for a lost love, as she reverently pulled a stitch through the base of a neck. Perhaps she _did_ love it, or at least the idea of it, to keep trying again and again even as the corpses piled as high as her failures around her. Yuuri did not pity her, nor her victims.

It was—and still is—an obsession he could not understand. Perhaps, as he thinks of it now, absently pulling a thread and needle through the knuckles of a discarded hand, it was simply her vanity which drove her to madness. She had lived centuries only because of the magicks passed down from the predecessors before her, but none of them had achieved immortality the way she thought of it—creating new bodies from a sum of parts taken from a whole, mixing and matching like she was picking clothes, in order to build the most perfect version of herself that she could ever create.

Yuuri closes his eyes, briefly.

_”Put me back, put me back!!”_

_How foolish she is, his mother, to think that she could ever overpower him enough to be a test subject to her own experiments. As he looks down at her frantic (half) body, covered in blood, flailing its arms around wildly, he only sighs and surveys the room around them._

_On the other side, his mother’s former body lays prone and lifeless against the stone floor, her hair spread about her like a halo. Even like this, she is still beautiful, like a fallen goddess found at the edge of a field. Things men have died for—her eyes, her skin, the plumpness of her lips—still shine wonderfully against the dark current of her hair. If magic flowed from her hands like water, then so too does her life. It is a beauty Yuuri understands, but does not appreciate._

_”M-My son... plea.. se...” the torso next to him gurgles, choking on its own blood, not at all beautiful in comparison. Its lower half lies but a few feet away, severed and torn, as lifeless as his mother’s body on the other side of the room._

_”What is it, mother?” he says instead, like he did not understand her. “Aren’t you happy I finally managed to learn that spell you’ve been trying to perfect? Although I suppose, without your eyes, you can’t quite do magic anymore.”_

_”The... the p-paayn...”_

_“So you are overjoyed?” laughs Yuuri, pretending again to misinterpret her, as he walks the pace of the room to hoist the former body of his mother into his arms. His hand hovers over its eyes. “If you don’t need this anymore, I’ll be sure to find some other use for it.”_

_The torso grows more incoherent, as it hacks up blood. ”Puh... puhlees... m-my boh... p-uht me bah—”_

_“Maybe a cat would like them?”_

_The creature wails louder and Yuuri only turns his back to it._

_”How pathetic,” he finally says, voice low, when he makes his way to the door. The creature on the floor writhes and cries out, reaching for him with a bloodied hand, or perhaps just for the body he holds gingerly in his arms. Yuuri smiles, bright. “Do not worry mother, that body will live forever. Was that not your wish?”_

_It shrieks, trying to drag its bloodied and severed upper half across the floor to reach him, but by then Yuuri is already halfway out of the room._

_When the door closes with a soft click, the house locks it behind him, silent._

_“Yuu—ri—!!!”_

Torn from his thoughts, he opens his eyes and gives a look of distaste at the door beside him, covered in dried blood. There is the faint sound of crying coming from its other side, one that Yuuri pointedly ignores.

“Lock it somewhere deeper. It’s annoying to be close to it.”

The house only breathes its assent, and the blood disappears from the wood.

There is silence, again.

**v.**

Yuuri does not know how many months it has been since he has met Yuuya at the markets, since he has come into his life, flickering, hazy and warm. It is a madman’s determination that keeps Yuuya coming back to this witch’s house, yet a fool’s errand for Yuuri to keep opening the door. He tells himself he wants to see the limits of Yuuya’s devotion, how far he would go to keep up this facade. The house laughs at him, when it can.

They meet in the spring, and talk through the summer—Yuuya wiping the sweat off his head, as Yuuri watches a bead go down his neck—and autumn comes quickly afterward, chasing the heels of Yuuya’s shoes and following the small of his back like a red cape and hood. Sometimes, Yuuya comes wearing such a thing, and Yuuri laughs at how well he blends into the foliage, especially as his cheeks begin to turn as red as the leaves outside.

It is not until they fall does Yuuri finally reach out and grasp them.

It is the beast, again, the one that sears his blood when he stares into the light of Yuuya’s eyes. What he would give to keep them forever; what he would give to keep _him_ forever. It would be easy, Yuuri thinks, as he holds Yuuya’s chin in the cup of his palm, feels the beat of a heart in Yuuya’s throat, as he drinks deep in his mouth, and tastes nothing but warmth, sugar, and cinnamon. It must be the tea mixed with honey, again, the one that Yuuya always drinks when he comes by, but still Yuuri presses closer to the taste. The house runs passages like a labyrinth, and at his command, Yuuya could be trapped within. It would be so easy.

Yuuya shudders and folds under him, under his hands, trembling, flushed, and Yuuri takes everything he gives. Against the backdrop of red, it is like Yuuya is cloaked lovingly by the dawn, and this, too, Yuuri takes—with his eyes, with his mouth, with his tongue.

The autumn leaves around them, they do nothing but fall,

fall,

fall.

  
  


It is dusk when Yuuya stands at his door again, this time to go home. He fusses over the collar of his dress, the ties of his apron, as Yuuri watches with a laugh behind his hand. Yuuya only responds with a huff, and indignation, which Yuuri, too, takes.

“It is presentable enough,” Yuuri says, as he leans his cheek into his knuckles. “What do you have to worry for? It’s almost dark; they probably won’t see you as well anyway.”

“That’s the problem!” Yuuya throws his hands up, exasperation on his face. “It’s almost dark and I’ve never come home so late before. Just the other day, I finally got the two of them to stop worrying about coming here, even though it’s been going on for so long already.”

“They must care about you.”

“Sometimes I wish it was a little less,” Yuuya sighs, scratching the back of his head. “I know they do. It’s just a little inconvenient sometimes, I guess. Yuugo should start worrying about himself, I think—he’s already about to get married next spring.”

“And Yuuto?” asks Yuuri, though only for courtesy. It is not like he cares about the happenings of Yuuya’s family outside of their influence on him. 

It is not like he cares for much outside of Yuuya at all.

“ _He_ should be the one getting married first,” says Yuuya, dusting off his apron (again). “He’s the one who does the cooking and cleaning around the house now that our mother’s gone.”

Yuuri hums appreciatively, but does not offer much else in the form of conversation as it lulls. Yuuya plays with the ties on his apron, as if hesitant to leave, the way his eyes seem to dart around the parlor, glancing ever so often at Yuuri. If there is something he wishes to say, then he should say it, Yuuri thinks.

“If you don’t want to leave,” Yuuri starts, walking forward to take Yuuya’s hands in his own, “then stay.”

Something catches in the crimson of Yuuya’s eyes, perhaps a little glimpse of hope, if Yuuri will delude himself into thinking so.

“No, I—” Yuuya seems to catch himself, then swallows, and looks at the ground. His lashes touch his cheek. “I just wanted to ask… if it was alright for me to come back.”

It is Yuuri’s turn to blink. “And why wouldn’t it be?”

“I mean, I sort of just came back the previous times,” he trails off. “I realized I never asked if you really wanted me here, or if you just dealt with me.”

The thing caught in Yuuya’s eyes, Yuuri wants to cut it out. It is a strain of doubt unbefitting of those fires he saw in Yuuya’s body, when they first met in town, when the world passed him by and all he could see was Yuuya between the masses. It is a doubt he will never have, when he catches Yuuya’s eyes in the sunlight, and sees himself reflected in his irises.

“Wait here,” he says, and lets Yuuya’s hands go. His own hands are colder now, without them, but he carries on like he does not notice.

“Where are you going—?”

Yuuri turns on his heel and heads further into the house, through the doors that are always locked when Yuuya comes by. Around him, he can feel the house shifting, trying to find the room that he wants to go to.

He passes the paintings, and they cower from him. He passes the statues, and they bow their heads as he walks by. He passes by those toy soldiers his mother used to love animating, and they only salute in return. Everything in the house—from the objects, the furnishings, to the walls themselves—bow to his command, and yet. And yet.

Something in the house cries out, loudly, deeper within its recesses. Yuuri knows it must be that creature again, on another bout of self-pity. Such sounds would never reach the parlor, where Yuuya stands, waiting. The corners of this house, its intricacies and its secrets, are all things he cannot know. The house, like Yuuri, has grown to love him in the same way—even the paintings would weep if they fell. Somewhere, a lone piano note rings out across the din of crying.

“You are uneasy,” Yuuri says to the air, as he finally opens the door that leads to his own room. “Because of that? It is inconsequential now.”

The house only shudders, as if apologetic. It is a level of regret that Yuuri does not understand as he picks up a small, string bag that sits at the edge of his vanity and rolls the object inside around his fingers.

When he opens the door out of his room next, it leads directly back to the parlor. Yuuya still stands there, waiting, though his face has become as pale as the moonlight that begins to spill through his windows. Yuuri wonders if it really took him so long to walk through the house, even as much as it changes.

“Yuuri!” Yuuya is frantic when he appears next, eyes wild. “I-I have to get back soon, it’s already so late, and...”

Some days, Yuuri forgets how deep the house goes, how winding its passages. Yuuya must have waited here longer than he should have, so he just holds out the little string bag in his hands for Yuuya to take.

“I wanted to give you this, before you left,” he says. “Here.”

Yuuya receives the bag in silence, as if afraid, for some reason. Yet, he rolls it around in his hands and blinks. “It’s round. Is it a marble?”

“A marble that will let you come back and leave, if you want,” says Yuuri. “But don’t open the bag, or it’ll escape.”

“It’ll escape?!” Yuuya looks at the bag in horror. “It’s alive?”

Yuuri smiles and holds Yuuya’s cheeks, warm, between his palms. He leans forward and plants a kiss on it, soft, like his hands. “It’s magical,” is all he says in return.

The color returns to Yuuya’s skin, just a little bit, and he laughs, though it is softer than the tinkling laughter Yuuri has heard before. In the reflection of moonlight, it almost seems ethereal, like Yuuya is but a fleeting wisp of a memory made real.

“Okay, I’ll keep the bag closed,” he says. His eyes are so warm when he looks at Yuuri again, relieved for some reason. “I have to go now.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow!”

Yuuya runs off into the night, the string bag clutched in his hands. As Yuuri watches his back fade into the darkness, he hears something scitter behind him, again.

The cat perches on its usual spot on the table, with its wide green eyes.

“You look satisfied.”

It only yawns, showing its teeth, in return.

**vi.**

There is only one certainty in life that Yuuya knows: all things must return to the soil, at the end of their life. It is how they buried his mother in the cloying heat of spring last year, her hair resplendent and yellow like dandelions as they sent her into the ground. Yuuto held him and Yuugo as they cried together at the funeral, Yuugo cursing, and Yuuya incoherent. Yuuto only stayed silent, for the both of them.

The seasons afterward passed like a blur between the humid days of spring and the downpour of summer. Autumn and winter, too, passed Yuuya by like the torrents of a river, except he was still as a rock, and did not move despite the force, though he wished to. When the frost came, he froze along with the river, until either Yuuto or Yuugo came by to gently pull him out of it, to wrap him in comforting warmth and cozy fires. Their house was never small, but without his mother’s cheerful voice to fill it, it felt empty.

Yuuto tended to the things their mother left behind, and Yuugo took over the shop. Yuuya, adrift, could only watch as his brothers carried on, hard and heavy, pushing against the current. He calls them brothers though they are not—they are born of separate wombs and bloodlines, across separate countries and borders along the way. His mother had taken them in when he was still a teenager, and Yuuto and Yuugo have been family ever since.

It is something Yuuya thinks about, sometimes, in the depths of the night when he lies awake in bed, unable to sleep. It is a reminder that both of his parents have been sent back to the soil, and he is the only one left of their original family. He knows—thinking like this only makes the ache worse, to say nothing of what Yuuto and Yuugo have done for him regardless—but he cannot help the wanderings of his mind, fraught, lonely, despite the people around him.

When spring came again, he found himself listless and restless, pacing the length of the house and then the length of his room when Yuuto got too worried. In a split second decision, he left the house for the first time in weeks, and wandered the markets, lost, like an apparition.

The rest of it—history, as far as Yuuya is concerned. When their eyes met in the markets, Yuuya had seen himself in the frame of the witch, of Yuuri. A loneliness sat between them, too, stuffy like the spring heat. It did not matter that Yuuri was the witch who lived in the forest, who the village told terrible tales of; it only mattered that Yuuya fell in love with the ways his eyes sparked as they talked, how fittingly pink they were against the dusk.

How something deeper lied within them—a monster, maybe.

Once again, the seasons passed them by, except Yuuya came to love the way it reflected in the outskirts of Yuuri’s garden. The people in town, none of them ever spoke about the vines that curled almost lovingly across the walls of the house, how bright red poppies bloomed in the spring and roses unfurled in the summer. Yet, it was all things Yuuya could not touch—once, when he thought of bringing a rose home to show his worried brothers the wonders of Yuuri’s house, Yuuri had caught his wrist and stopped him.

“They don’t like being picked,” Yuuri said, his grip strong and tight on his arm. “It’s better if you don’t.”

It was one of the many things Yuuya could not touch. The grandfather clock in the entryway, the piano he once saw a glimpse of in a side room, even the bookcase and its litany of books were all off limits to him. When he tried to open doors in the house, they would all be locked. If he asked Yuuri, he would only receive refusals and “it’s better if you don’t”. The way Yuuri talked, it is like everything in the house was dangerous to even be near, but then how could Yuuri live in it?

And then, one day, Yuuri leaves him alone in the house, for once.

Yuuya knows he shouldn’t go sneaking around, that it is what Yuuri wants—for him to stay still, and just wait, even as his body twitches to try and explore. Another part of him knows that even if he were to try the doors, they would all be locked, again.

“Mraow.”

Something catches his eye in the last rays of sunlight, small and furry as it dashes across the parlor. Yuuya catches it slipping between the gap of a door, just slightly ajar.

_An open door._

His hands shake, and he looks around, and then steps forward ever so slowly, afraid of Yuuri popping out to reprimand him. He should not go forward, he should not open the door, something in him says, yet. Yet. Yet—

Yuuya pushes the door the rest of the way, hearing the hinges creak as it opens, and then covers his mouth as he feels the bile rise in his throat.

The room is covered in blood, some of it haphazard in the way it spills against the stone and the walls, and some of it deliberate as there are dark red symbols drawn into the floor. A desk stacked with books lies on the other side of the room, the only piece of furniture that is not covered in a layer of red like everything else. Everything—the curtains, the windows, the chairs—is red.

But it is the center of the room, wide open and covered with symbols, that makes Yuuya almost empty the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

It cannot be described as a body, no matter how much Yuuya recognizes the beginnings of a face underneath long, dark strands of hair. In the center of the room, it lies there, unmoving, seemingly uncaring of the fact that its lower half is missing, and blood continues to seep from the separation. There are marks on its skin, made from scratching. Some are old, and some are new. On the base of its neck, a fresh wound lies, deep, but this does not change its expression.

The sound Yuuya makes in his horror—it finally looks up, at the noise.

“Yuu... ri...” it says, coughing, hacking. Blood rises from its throat and it spits it out onto the floor. “You’re... heee...”

Its voice trails off and leaves silence in its wake. Yuuya covers his mouth, for fear that the next noise from him, even his deep inhale, or the fast beating of his heart, may irritate it again, or catch its attention. The silence ticks by so slowly, Yuuya can count his own heartbeats.

Is this what Yuuri keeps inside of his house? The depth of his eyes which Yuuya fell in love with back in the spring? The thought, it churns something in his stomach. And then—

 _“YUUUUURIII!”_ it wails, almost crying, as it hurriedly crawls towards him on its arms, and Yuuya steps back in fear, caught in a state of shock as it draws closer. _“YOUUUU... PAAAYYY...!”_

It grabs the base of his ankle, firm, unyielding, and Yuuya almost feels his own terror rip out of his throat, but something black darts in-between them. It is the same thing that Yuuya must have seen scampering around the parlor; a black cat with green eyes, and a mouth full of sharp teeth. There is no hesitation as it bites into the wrist of the monster and causes it to screech loudly, painfully, until it flails about trying to dislodge the animal from its hand. Yuuya gathers his wits enough to flee the room quickly, slamming the door shut behind him.

Only silence greets him in the entryway again, the sound of the slammed door seeming to echo in the house, and Yuuya slowly slides onto the ground, his heart still thudding in his chest. Each breath he takes seems like his last.

Yuuri is still not back yet.

Shakily, Yuuya makes his way to the door again, afraid of putting weight onto his own legs as he stands there, propped against the door frame. The sun sets in the far horizon, chasing the last rays of daylight, and they spill over Yuuya’s face like a soft caress before disappearing quickly into the coming night. When it has gone completely, the candles in the house flicker on, by magic.

Yuuya isn’t sure he wants to process what it is he saw in that room, with that creature. It spat blood and crawled like it was alive, and yet, some part of him knew it was anything but.

Was that what Yuuya would become, in the future? Was that rotting monster a warning to his demise? It had called him Yuuri, like it knew him, like it was Yuuri’s fault that it lay there, trapped. The more Yuuya thought about it, the less he wanted to know, but his mind runs circles around him and his thoughts, and they grow as dark as the coming night.

When the door opens next, Yuuya almost jumps, but it is Yuuri who stands in the frame, and not the monster.

“Yuuri!” his voice, it must sound as scared as his heart, beating out of rhythm in his chest. “I-I have to get back soon, it’s already so late, and...”

Yuuri’s eyes seem to soften in the candlelight, and it takes a moment more before Yuuya realizes that he is trying to hand him something. 

“I wanted to give you this, before you left,” Yuuri says, voice soft. “Here.”

The bag is soft when he touches it, almost hesitantly, like it will bite him if he got too close. When it doesn’t, he finally closes his hand around it and feels something spherical press against his palm. Firm, but a little malleable. “It’s round. Is it a marble?” he asks.

Yuuri almost seems amused. “A marble that will let you come back and leave, if you want,” he says. “But don’t open the bag, or it’ll escape.”

“It’ll escape?!” Something in his stomach drops. “It’s alive?”

Yuuri reaches out for him, and Yuuya has half a mind to recoil, or duck, but he stays still as he feels Yuuri’s hands press against his face. It is his eyes that bore into him next, full of light, of love—a color so clear that Yuuya can see into its depths. His hands, when they hold him, like they were earlier today in the garden, they are so, so soft. It is almost reverent, the way Yuuri treats him.

Suddenly, Yuuya remembers the falling autumn leaves all around them, the sun high in the distance. When Yuuri kissed him, and covered his gasp with his mouth, his hands had been just as warm against his face, holding his chin. It is a memory followed by the flurry of wind, rustling the leaves of the trees, and the roses Yuuri cultivates so lovingly in his garden, despite the summer heat. It is hot sweat, and sweet sighs, and love.

The night, it is a time of day that Yuuya has never seen Yuuri in before, as he always leaves before the sun sets. Somewhere, his brothers must be worried, looking for him, waiting by their own candlelight for him to return from the house of a witch like Yuuri. Instead, Yuuya stands here, shocked, pale, and doubting. When Yuuri looks at him with such reverent eyes, Yuuya is helpless.

The moonlight goes over the panes of Yuuri’s face, the purple of his hair. Like this, it is easy to forget that Yuuri is a witch, when he is so beautiful against the darkness.

“Okay, I’ll keep the bag closed,” Yuuya says, finally. He smiles, once, from his heart. “I have to go now.”

He does not want to leave, despite it all. The monster in the room, its words—Yuuya must be drunk on the autumn chill that creeps through his clothes. When Yuuya thinks of leaving Yuuri, he only feels sorrow for the eyes he saw in the marketplace all those months ago.

It is—trust, he tells himself, that Yuuri has let him live for so many months, has entertained his every whim. It is trust that Yuuya must give back to him now, despite the way his hands tremble.

(It is love, blind.)

Yuuri lets him go, again, as he always has. 

“See you tomorrow.”

As he always has.

Yuuya lingers, a moment longer, before he runs back to town, clutching the little string bag to his chest. When he approaches the edge of the forest, it seems to move in his hands, and the trees part a path.

To come and go as he wished, was it?

(His shadow, it flickers in the moonlight.)

**vii.**

Winter comes in the footsteps of autumn, chasing the ends of dead leaves. The vibrant red decay that Yuuri has come to love in the strands of Yuuya’s hair, the roof of his mouth, and the sight of his frame against the sun is traded for new things: the color of Yuuya’s cheeks in the cold, the callous of his hands in Yuuri’s own, and the flicker of tongue when he wets his lips again, dry against the winds.

However, it is like with the season’s change and the snow that falls to herald the winter’s arrival, something in Yuuya changes as well.

He grows tired more easily—if Yuuri is lucky, then Yuuya will still have enough energy to sit and have tea with him in the parlor when he comes by, though the circles under his eyes grow darker with every visit. If he is unlucky, Yuuya does not come at all, some days, and Yuuri waits fervently by the window for his arrival until the sun sets in the late afternoon.

Yuuri knows something is wrong, even if Yuuya will not say it. There is a haggard way to his movements, seemingly sluggish as he maneuvers the house and walks to and from the length of the town to Yuuri’s house in the forest. Sometimes, Yuuri answers the door and is greeted with a coughing fit as Yuuya apologizes every other breath, while Yuuri tries to get him inside faster, out of the cold. Other times, Yuuya barely makes it to the door before he falls asleep in Yuuri’s arms, and the afternoon is spent silent as Yuuri sits in the parlor with Yuuya’s head in his lap. 

It is a sickness, but not one Yuuri has ever seen. 

Yuuya will not tell him, when he asks. “It’s just a winter thing,” is all he gets, before Yuuya silences him with the love of his eyes that makes something turn hot inside Yuuri.

Today, Yuuya is silent against his shoulder, his face buried in the crook of Yuuri’s neck, as he breathes, and breathes, and breathes. The tea cups on the table remain untouched, though steam still rises from the top, always fresh and hot when they need to be. Yuuri wants to take one, but he does not wish to disturb Yuuya’s rest with the movement of his arms, so he merely watches the steam pass as the old grandfather clock ticks by.

Yet, his hand, it comes up to cradle the shape of Yuuya’s face, dragging his thumb across his cheek. Though warm, they are colder than usual, a fact that makes Yuuri’s spirits sink. Again, he puts his fingers against the column of Yuuya’s throat, to feel for the pulse he has memorized when he held his chin and dragged his mouth along the bones of Yuuya’s jaw, amidst Yuuya’s giggles, and muffled laughter.

He listens in one-two, one-two. It is faint against his fingers, stuttering sometimes and fine others, but it is so— _weak._

Something creeps down his spine. A chill, perhaps, though Yuuri does not get cold.

“Yuuya,” he pushes him away, gently, shaking his shoulders. “Yuuya, wake up.”

Yuuya does not wake up.

Frantic, now, Yuuri lays him flat against the armchair and presses his ear to Yuuya’s chest. Again, one-two, one-two, one—two—

The walls seem to constrict, then shudder. The house wails, silent. Yuuri stays with his head there, against the soft rise and fall of Yuuya’s chest. If he can hear something pounding in his ears, it must be Yuuya’s feeble heart, and not his own. Through it all, an undercurrent of magic that seems to seep into Yuuri’s frame, dark and foreboding, as it crushes Yuuya’s heart between its claws.

Yuuri has never seen this sickness because it is not a sickness; it is a curse.

The house wakes up, in fury. Yuuri presses a kiss to the line of Yuuya’s jaw again, then to his cheeks, then to his lips—soft, and gentle, and chaste. 

Then he stands and makes his way to the door leading further into the house, the wood covered in a thick layer of dried blood as he twists the handle and passes, like a storm, inside.

“You,” he does not bother with a weapon. It is with his bare hands that he grabs the shaking creature on the floor, the only resemblance left of his mother, and digs his nails painfully into its neck. Blood flows freely down his hands, but he does not stop. “I should have killed you, all those years ago.”

It screams, loud and long, but Yuuri throws the severed torso onto the floor in retaliation and grits his teeth as he presses his shoe further into the dent on its neck. Struggling, it shrieks and flails, but Yuuri is stronger as he presses his foot down further.

“Leaving you with any limbs at all was a mercy.”

“Yuuuu—ri—“

He does not bother to answer it, as he leans over to grab one of its flailing arms. As if sensing his intent, it begins to shake harder, screeching, crying tears of blood. Yuuri merely twists the arm and puts his weight into the joint, hearing a satisfying tear as it rips from the creature’s shoulders, spewing sinew and blood.

“You were always worse at sewing than me,” he continues, throwing the arm across the room, where something grabs at it and disappears. He wraps his hand around the other arm. “This body was your own making, wasn’t it? It is shoddy construction—but then, you meant for me to take it, and not you.”

“Puh... puh-leee—“

“Do not worry, dearest mother. I will not kill you.”

At the end of it all, Yuuri sheds his outer coat, covered and dripping in blood, onto the floor, and it makes a wet squelch as it crumbles against the stone. Across the way, only a head is impaled upright on a fire poker, and it is silent.

Yuuri walks out of the room and does not close the door behind him this time, when he makes his way back to the parlor and sees Yuuya’s still-sleeping figure against the armchair.

Gently, he kneels and scoops Yuuya’s body into his arms, his grip tight.

“I will make you better,” he whispers, into the mess of Yuuya’s hair, trembling. When he turns to the door again, it is no longer covered in blood, and on the other side is Yuuri’s own room, instead of the mess he left behind. 

The house swings the door shut after him.

The entryway is locked.

**viii.**

Yuuto knows the tales of the witch who lives in the forest, the stories that are passed down in town from parents to children. 

Though, he did not hear these tales from Youko—from his late mother, because she would always turn in the direction of the witch’s house and look so sorrowful when she passed it by. It is because Yuuto is the oldest that he remembers accompanying her into the markets that day when she fell in love with the witch and her sweet perfume, and glossy green eyes. She must not have wanted him to know, because they hurried through the stalls afterward, though her eyes never left the witch’s beautiful face and cascading, purple hair.

This must be what Yuuya shares in that familial resemblance, when he disappears to see the witch. It must be the last traces of Youko’s longing when he takes off into the forest at sun up and returns with flushed cheeks at sun down. It is because Yuuto is the oldest that he recognizes the look on Yuuya’s face, full of adoration and sweet, sweet love. Yuugo would say otherwise, would say the witch must have charmed him with his magicks and not his dimpled kisses, but Yuuto knows, because he remembers what it was like on the planes of Youko’s face, the fire in her eyes.

Like this, he lets Yuuya go. Youko died in the soil longing for a love she could never fulfill, and so Yuuto lets Yuuya chase it in her place, following the back of a purple haired man with glimmering pink eyes like the cherry blossoms in spring.

Yuugo doesn’t like it, he knows. When Yuuya leaves, Yuugo begs him not to, but Yuuya is as free as the soaring winds, and goes anyway.

“You’re too soft,” Yuugo says to him, as they watch the trees part a path for Yuuya in the snow. It is a path they cannot take, as it closes, following his footsteps. “He looked actually sick this time. We should have made him stay home.”

“Then would the witch’s magicks have helped better, or our medicine?” asks Yuuto. “I think the witch has grown fond of him.”

“The witch charmed him!” Yuugo shouts, then quiets down as passerby townspeople look at him inquisitively. “You know this. You know what the witch can do. Even if he’s grown fond, doesn’t that mean he wants to keep Yuuya? Like a pet?”

“Yuuya is... his own person,” Yuuto says after a brief pause. “He wouldn’t keep going back if the witch meant him harm.”

“Yuuya is too nice for his own good,” Yuugo sighs, rubbing his neck. “I just... don’t have a good feeling, is all.”

“I understand.”

Really, Yuuto does. He has heard the tales of the witches, has watched the successor take the place of the woman Youko fell in love with. He knows the secrets of the town, how they fear that house, how people who go there never come back. But Yuuya—he returns.

He lets Yuuya go because he loves him, because he remembers the despondent doll that occupied the house in the days after Youko’s funeral. Yuuto and Yuugo—they had only known her for a handful of years, but to Yuuya she was his entire world, after his father left. It is something Youko and Yuuya didn’t and still don’t speak about, even to this day, about what remained in their household afterward.

Yuugo’s worry is not misplaced. There are certain things they whisper in town about the magicks of the house, of the witch, of those who enter. Yuuto can only watch the snow pile up in the footprints left behind by Yuuya, and hope.

“You should be worrying about yourself,” Yuuto says, with a little bit of a smile. “Your wedding is in a few months.”

Yuugo’s ears light up red first, before his cheeks, and he pointedly looks away from Yuuto as he turns around to head back home. “Y-Yeah, well...” he stutters, his lip quivering. “Rin said she wanted to see Yuuya, but he hasn’t been around lately because he always goes to the witch’s.”

“Ah, so is it jealousy? Are you jealous of the witch for taking Yuuya’s attention?”

“Yuuto, shut up!”

They could not possibly have known, could never have predicted—it would be the last time they ever saw Yuuya, hale and whole and happy.

For two days afterward, there is a blizzard that freezes the entire town in its tracks. The markets close and the snow piles high until even opening the door requires a tremendous amount of strength from Yuuto to break down the caked snow. Yuugo, worried sick about Yuuya, takes the shovel and starts working at clearing a path from their house to the edge of the forest, in case Yuuya was trapped at the other side and could not return home. 

Two days and two nights pass like this, Yuugo trying to keep the path cleared every day, and the both of them wait by candlelight for his return. The blizzard still does not stop, despite this. It rages, like a tempest, howling fiercely and long into the night.

Yuuto almost thinks it sounds... sad, somehow, for how a blizzard could convey such emotion.

On the third day, Yuuto wakes up to Yuugo bundled in heavy furs, pulling his snowshoes on at the door, with a look of determination on his face.

“Shoveling again?” Yuuto asks, at the top of the balcony overlooking the first floor, when he walks out of his room.

“Not today,” Yuugo says, drawing his lips into a thin line. “I’m going to the witch’s house.”

Yuuto runs down the stairs, quickly, and tries to stop him. Something—something in him, it begins to twist, at the thought. “It’s been blizzarding for three days now, and you said Yuuya looked sick, so it’s best not for him to walk around in this weather.”

“Then I’ll carry him back from the witch’s house myself. It’s fine.”

Yuugo stands up, and the bad feeling Yuuto has multiplies.

Against everything in his body, he sighs, and starts unhooking a coat by the door so he can put it on. “Then I’ll come with you. If Yuuya doesn’t want to leave or he looks too sick, then we head back, alright?”

Yuugo grumbles. “Alright.”

They trek, together, into the blizzard. They follow the path Yuugo has made, shoveling for days waiting for Yuuya to return, to no avail. They have never been to the witch’s house, but they know what path they must take to get there, for Yuuya has made this trip a million times, and never fails to entertain them with the details. The blizzard obscures what landmarks they can identify on the way, and Yuuya’s footprints have long since been covered by the blanket of snow.

The two of them forge on, regardless. They cross the frozen river and climb the icy hill, hands clutched tight, afraid of losing each other in the harsh winds. When they finally hit the peak, a large house greets them, surrounded by a garden that seems untouched by the blizzard, except for a thin layer of snow, almost like sleet.

As if it senses them coming, the rose vines along the trellis immediately close their petals, disappearing into buds. Slowly, the snow in their path melts until they are standing in mud, as if there still wasn’t a blizzard raging hard against their ears and snow falling on their clothes.

Yuuto’s grip on Yuugo’s hand tightens, and Yuugo nods once, without turning his head to look at him. They both know—the witch knows, that they are here.

They move past the gate covered in rose vines; it opens for them as they pass, but closes again once they are inside. Yuugo’s hand shakes in his hold, and Yuuto knows he is scared, with the quiver of his lip, and the feeling of his nails digging into the back of Yuuto’s hand. Despite this, despite Yuugo’s fear, he continues up to the door, taking Yuuto along with him, for Yuuya’s sake.

_Knock, knock, knock._

“Yuuya!” Yuugo shouts, when no one answers the door. “Yuuya, it’s Yuuto and Yuugo. We came to get you.”

The door unlocks by itself, and swings wide open. Inside, a rush of warm air greets them, and Yuuto feels relief for it, for how long they have trekked to get here. Some part of him, however, drops, and the bad feeling he had at home comes back in full force. They should not cross that threshold; they should not go inside.

But Yuugo has no such reservations, as he pulls Yuuto through the door with him. Behind them, it swings shut, and the lock turns on its own.

“Yuugo, I don’t like this,” Yuuto says, as Yuugo steps out of his snowshoes and leaves them by the door. “Yuugo.”

“I don’t like it either,” Yuugo pulls down his hood, and his eyes finally come into view. They glance at the door, locked, behind them, and something flashes behind his pupils. “But we’re here now, and Yuuya is also somewhere in here. If the witch did something, I couldn’t leave him.”

And neither could he, Yuugo knows. Yuuto shuts his eyes and sighs, taking off the heavy coat around his shoulders and hanging it on the rack next to the door. His hand stills, as he lets it go. Every step they take within this house, every action they do, feel as though it is their last, and he cannot help but worry about Yuuya, somewhere in here.

They wait in the entryway for ten minutes, hoping to see either Yuuya or the witch, but neither of them come to greet them. Yuugo tries the main door, once, but the lock doesn’t turn even when he puts all his strength into it, and Yuuto tells himself that the shiver that runs down his spine is not from the foreboding feeling that grows with every second, but the lingering chill of the frost outside. 

The only way out now, is to go deeper into the house.

They go together into the first door in front of them, which leads to what appears to be a dining room. The table is empty, as are the seats, except for a single, covered meal left at the head of the table. The candelabra lights a fire on its own when they enter.

Yuugo reaches out to lift the cover, but Yuuto grabs his wrist. “That’s not ours,” he says. “Don’t touch anything here.”

“Sorry,” Yuugo mumbles, though his eyes flicker back to the metal cover as they kite the table.

When they finally make it to the other side of the room with no incident, Yuugo startles, tugging frantically at Yuuto’s sleeve.

“Wait, Yuuto, look—“

On the floor, next to one of the chairs of the dining table and half-hidden by the tablecloth, are a pair of red boots, neatly stood together as if someone had placed them that way. Yuugo makes for them before Yuuto can process the rest of it, and he opens his mouth too late—Yuugo grabs the pair of shoes and holds them up to the light of the candelabra.

The flame flickers, briefly, before it burns brighter. Yuuto finally recognizes the shoes.

“These are Yuuya’s, right?” Yuugo speaks his thoughts for him. “They weren’t this color, but I remember... mom sewed these little bells on for him, and Yuuya wore them a lot...”

“But they were only for decoration, because the bells were hollow inside,” Yuuto finishes his thought. “Jingle them.”

Yuugo grabs the bells at the side of the boots and shakes them in his hand. No sound comes out, not even the rough clanking of the ball inside that would resound against Yuugo’s palm instead of the tinkling in open air. Hollow, like they remember it being. These must have been Yuuya’s shoes, but Yuuto _knows_ they were not red, because he and Yuugo had gone through every stall in the market trying to find red dye, to no success. 

Yuugo, too, looks troubled as he stares at the boots in his hands. “... Maybe, the witch dyed them red?”

“It could be.”

Yuugo hugs them close to his chest. “I don’t know, I’ll hold onto these,” he says, a little unsure. “We can give them back to Yuuya.”

Yuuto wants to tell him no, that they should put them back, but holds his tongue, for once. Somehow, he cannot shake the thought of leaving them behind, under the table. If they really were Yuuya’s, then it should be alright for them to hold onto them for now, right? Right?

In his mind, there is only a haze. If Yuuto thinks too hard about it, he feels pain. He only nods to Yuugo’s suggestion, and then turns around to put his hand on the door leading to the next room of the house. Yuugo shuffles behind him, quiet, the red boots in his hands.

“Wait,” Yuugo says. “Let’s... let’s just go back to the entryway. I really... really don’t like this bad feeling I have.”

Yuuto cannot argue with him, the way this house seems to seep into his bones. At the very least, they could wait a little longer than ten minutes before starting to sneak around someone else’s house—especially the house of a witch. They stick a little closer together as they make for the door they came from again.

The metal lid on the table shakes, once.

“Yuuto,” Yuugo’s voice is small behind him. “Hurry up, let’s get back.”

Yuuto opens the door quickly as he and Yuugo file into the other side, closing it shut behind him. On the other side, he can hear something beginning to rattle, and swallows nervously.

“This... this isn’t the entryway.”

Yuuto turns around and sees a long hallway instead of the parlor they entered through, extending into the darkness. Only the candle closest to them lights up with a flame, and Yuuto can see nothing but doors on both sides of the walls. He is sure—there was no mistaking it, that the dining room only had two doors: one that they entered through, and one that they almost exited, before they doubled back. It had to be the same door, yet.

The house, the walls, they almost seem to laugh at him, with the way the flame of the candlelight dances sprightly. Yuuto tears his eyes from it and finds Yuugo crouched on the floor, instead, putting down the boots.

“Hey, Yuuya’s the same size as us,” says Yuugo, unlacing his own boots. The bottom of the soles have begun to wear a little with the trek and the snow, even protected as they were inside his snowshoes. “If we have to run from something, I’d rather not do it in these.”

“Saying stuff like that doesn’t make this any easier,” Yuuto tries to joke, and Yuugo snorts. 

He steps out of his own boots and unlaces the red ones. “You heard that rattling thing behind us; I’d rather not take my chances. I’ll apologize to Yuuya later.”

Yuuto hums in thought and turns around to survey the closest door to them. As he passes by the candles, they light one by one, adding more light to the darkness, though this still does not show him the end of the hallway. As he passes by the fourth candle that lights up, something heavy thuds behind him.

He moves to turn around, except something pushes him against the wall, and then he feels hands on his throat, fingers pressing into his jugular. Yuuto chokes, trying to cough, but the hands wrap tighter around him, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing—

His vision, it goes black. Yuuto tries to dig his nails into their wrists, but they do not budge no matter what he does. Through the flailing and struggling, they hold him against the wall, steadfast, strong. His breath leaves him, faster and faster.

“Yuu—?”

The candles flicker, again. The hallway constricts like a snake around him, like the hands on his throat, suffocating him. The breath leaves him. His vision grows weaker, darker, blurrier.

When he doesn’t breathe anymore, the hands leave him, and he drops to the ground, silent. In the last vestiges of consciousness, of life, he only sees Yuugo across the way, his eyes blank, and blood pouring from his neck.

Yuuya’s red shoes walk into his vision.

And then, darkness.

**ix.**

Through the heavy snow, and the howling wind, the cat merely watches the seasons pass by as if she were looking into a kaleidoscope, with vague disinterest and disinterested acceptance. Once, she must have loved the weather, the seasons, even the cold that she retreats from now. It is hard, sometimes, to remember who she was before, and what she is now, as she perches on the windowsill and watches two people enter the house, unawares.

Before she regained her sentience again, she was simply just another cat that the old master of the house kept around. How long ago that master was, she also doesn’t remember. It is not like the house is hostile to everything, despite the rumors and the stories. She remembers being a witch, too, once upon a time, but these thoughts are fleeting, and chased away by the flutter of a bird’s feathers in her vision.

She has spent too much time as an animal, and not nearly enough as a human.

It was—only years ago, recently, that the current master gave her eyes with which to finally perceive the world with, once again. It had felt like she had finally awoken from a long slumber, as the memories flitted by her mind’s eye, as she regained the semblance of humanity she once held, though interspersed now with more animalistic wants and desires.

The most important thing she remembers, is the fate of all the witches that lived in this house. It is a fool’s errand to fall in love with them, to desire their power, or to want their attention. The line between human and witch may be thin, but it is there. It is easy to forget, she supposes, that they are witches first, and human second. 

It is so easy to forget.

The red one that visits—Yuuya, the master of the house calls him—is a fool, she thinks. Nothing good comes from chasing the love of a witch, who will live centuries beyond the lifespan of a human, who does not quite understand human morality the way humans want it to be understood. Some things, like Yuuri’s penchant for going into town to sell fake potions, as an excuse to leave the house, can be forgiven. Other things, like his love for Yuuya, cannot.

It is why she leads Yuuya to the room with the creature, with Yuuri’s mother. Witches hold long grudges, but humans are flickering, fleeting, like a spark of flame. Brilliant, when you see it, but gone too quickly after. It is why she wants him to see what it is a witch is, wants him to run away, for his own good.

But, she forgets, as she usually does, that even in that mutilated and broken body, Yuuri’s mother was also a witch. Even without her eyes, her power, she still knew how to control magic, feeble as it was. Yuuya’s curse, the burden of his deteoriation, it is in her lapse of judgement.

It was never—witches were never meant to harm humans, like this. She remembers, a long time ago, when she also lived in town, instead of so secluded on this hill. She remembers loving someone too, like Yuuri did, longing for their gaze. A woman with golden eyes like the sunlight, as the cicadas chirped in summer tones around them. Green, green hair, adrift in the wind and flowing in the breeze. 

The cicadas, the cicadas—her thoughts scatter, again.

A headless body walks past her in the hallway, dragging a corpse that she recognizes as one of the two people that just entered the house. It does not stop to look at her as it passes, though the blood is fresh on its neck, and drips heavy onto the furs it wears, matting it.

Again, again, it is death. What for, all of this? Immortality? How useless, to a witch! Are the centuries not enough?

 _For Yuuya,_ the house says to her.

_And this is the price we must pay for it? On a mountain of corpses?_

_I am not the master of this house._

_But you condone his actions._

The house stays silent, in front of her stare. The walls shrink, ashamed. The cat merely waves its tail, once, twice, and then closes her eyes. The house, too, used to be a witch.

All of them, lost to the ambitions of youth, chasing after eternal life only to continue living in the worst possible way.

_You know you shouldn’t fall in love, Sora._

_I know, Serena._

It is so, so easy to forget, sometimes, that they were all once human.

**x.**

It is dark, in Yuuri’s room, as he works by candlelight. He snaps the thread made of sinew with his teeth, and pulls the needle down through joints, connecting together all the parts of a human body. There is only the ticking clock to accompany him, to remind him, to work faster than the curse can take Yuuya’s body.

Briefly, in a moment of lucidity, he thinks of how his mother made bodies, how he used to watch from the keyhole of a door and studied the way she pulled together their bones, their tendons, their skin. Even in this—as in all things—he learned faster, better. His stitches are more concise, the magic resonating in the needle as he plunges it into skin. It bleeds all over him, as it does, but Yuuri has gone past caring for his clothing.

His hands are red, so red. Caked with dried blood, and covered in fresh ones, continuously, as he sews.

All the suitors his mother lured, all the parts she did not use—Yuuri had scoured them, picked through the pile like it was just another scrap heap, but halfway through the first body, he had realized that _leftovers_ were not what he wanted for Yuuya.

_(Dear Yuuya.)_

The headless body standing beside him holds its head in one arm, and the corpse of someone else in another. Yuuri has never met them, but he knows them, through the descriptions Yuuya used to give of his brothers.

The headless one—Yuugo, and the corpse—Yuuto.

Yuuya would cry, if he knew. If he knew. 

Yuuri peers over the rim of his glasses and stares at Yuuya’s body lying on his bed, breathing, but unmoving. Even now, Yuuri knows the rhythm of his heartbeat, stuttered as it is by the curse, the magic that eats at his body. He knows it goes one-two, one—two. And then stop. Then once again, one-two.

The time, it only moves against him.

From Yuugo, he takes his arms and torso, firm, to attach to the base of the new body. They are tanned, a little bit darker and a little bit more toned than Yuuya’s skin, but Yuuri cannot be picky as the clock ticks next to him. From Yuuto, he takes his hands, face, and legs. It is almost fortunate, that Yuuto looks so much like Yuuya, that both of his brothers are like this.

Things like hair, Yuuri can change with his magic. It is only that he cannot make new parts from nothing, without the materials beforehand.

Through the winter, through the snow, through the blizzard, he works. He sews, and sews, and sews. If his hands tire, it is only because they have been covered in too much blood, and he needs to go wash them.

The cat watches, sometimes, like it disapproves. No doubt it would tell him, if it could manage to remember its own name long enough to do so. Yuuri does not care. The house, it waits with bated breath, with anticipation.

When he is done, the doll only lacks eyes, and Yuuri knows he cannot compromise. The fire in Yuuya’s eyes, the sparks, the flame. The red, red autumn leaves, and the feel of his mouth. If Yuuri lets it, he could lose himself in the memories.

But he has to work, for Yuuya. Only Yuuya.

He turns his scalpel to Yuuya’s face.

  
  
  


**???.**

Yuuya wipes the sweat off his neck, as the sun bears down on him. Spring has come again, along with that cloying heat, with not even the summer cicadas to sing for it. Beside him, Yuuri presses a piece of ice against his cheek, and sighs wistfully.

“I’m going to head back into the wagon,” says Yuuri, closing his eyes in faint disgust. “I didn’t think the southern regions would be so… unbearable.”

Yuuya laughs, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “I can take over your stall while you cool down. Don’t you have magic for this, though?”

“A waste of effort,” Yuuri waves his hand dismissively, then slinks back into the cool shade of their wagon—a doorway back to their house. “I’ll be back.”

Yuuya does not mind the overbearing sun as much, even as the sweat rolls down his skin. He remembers growing up in the summer like this, with his brothers, playing in the river until his mother came by to drag them all home. Briefly, Yuuya’s thoughts wander, and he sighs.

How many years has it been since he met Yuuri? The time, it goes by so quickly now, and he does not know, does not quite remember. The memories are like a haze every time he goes back to them, but there are some things he recalls. Yuuto and Yuugo, at the funeral. Yuuri, and his house, with his potions and the dusky eyes.

He misses them, but it has been so long now. When he woke up, Yuuri told him that he had fallen into a magical induced sleep for a while, and years had passed. They must be old and grown now.

His only regret is missing Yuugo’s wedding.

As he stands up again, a woman spots him across the way, and runs over.

“Yuuya? Yuuya, is that you?”

He looks up and sees—amber colored eyes, and bright green hair. Something tugs at him, with the familiarity, though like all things, he does not quite remember. He knows her, from somewhere, sometime. Yuugo’s face pops into his head, but then his thoughts scatter, again.

She is… older than she should be. He doesn’t remember. 

He doesn’t remember.

“Um, hello!” he smiles, gesturing to the bottles in front of him. “Are you interested in our stock?”

“Yuuya, it’s me. Rin. Yuugo’s fian—”

“Miss Rin, perhaps you’d be interested in these bottles, over here,” Yuuri is beside him, taking his hand, leading him away. “Yuuya, you look tired. Go back into the wagon.”

“Yeah,” he holds his head. It hurts, what he does not know, but he cannot remember. He stands up and heads towards the gateway, Yuuri’s words like a weight on his mind. Back to the wagon, back to the wagon.

“Yuuya, Yuuya—!”

When he is inside the house again, the thoughts fade away.

It is better, like this.

Some things, Yuuri said, he should not remember.

Yuuya closes his eyes and falls asleep on the floor. The house, gentle as it is, moves him away from the door.

The ticking grandfather clock beside him rings a low tune.

  
  


He dreams of dandelions.

**Author's Note:**

> please. leave me a comment. im begging you  
> this au has killed me
> 
> check out my soundcloud  
> https://twitter.com/octomaidly


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